


this is our happily ever after

by Bundibird



Category: NCIS
Genre: And they live happily ever after in Paris because they damn well deserve to ok, Direct Continuation Post-13x24, Everbody Lives/No One Dies, F/M, Fix-it fic, and Tony goes to find her, as in Ziva, this is the one where Ziva's not dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 07:47:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8048212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bundibird/pseuds/Bundibird
Summary: The Tiva fix-it that we all want and need. [OR: Heart in his throat, and something that might possibly be hope fluttering in his chest, Tony re-packs Tali's diaperbag and then books the two of them a one-way trip to Paris.]Cross-posted at ff.n





	this is our happily ever after

**Author's Note:**

> Words are not enough to express the level of rage I feel over what they did in 13x24, so instead I’ll just say: Here, here’s a better ending. Enjoy.

The flight to Tel Aviv isn’t the worst plane trip Tony’s ever had, but it sure isn’t the best, either.

 

Tali spends half the trip fussing – squirming and wriggling and making displeased whining sounds that threaten to turn into full-blown tears whenever Tony tries to get her to sit still instead of allowing her to roam the length of the plane like she clearly wants to – and the other half either sitting on his lap playing with her toys or sleeping soundly against his chest, her mouth open and her tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern.

 

Tony spends those parts of the trip staring down at her with equal parts bafflement, wonder, and heartbreak.

 

Once they land, Tel Aviv itself is a special kind of heartbreak.

 

Everywhere he looks, something reminds him of Ziva.

 

Every flash of dark hair glinting in the sunlight, every flutter of a silken scarf, every glance at the scenery out the window, and it’s only when he whips around to stare at a woman with a similar facial structure to Ziva that he realises with a lurch that he’s expecting her to be here, expecting to see her – catch a glimpse of her vanishing around a corner, sitting inside the window at a restaurant, looking through the wares outside a stall.

 

There’s a sharp, clawing… _thing_ in Tony’s chest that gets bigger and heavier the further they travel, and it’s only because he’s got Tali – only because Tali’s relying on him, because she _needs_ him, because she’s small and tiny and vulnerable and needs him to not _fall to pieces_ – that he manages to keep it together at all.

 

They arrive at their destination, and when they get out of the car and he sees the wreckage that was once a house – was once _Ziva’s_ house, was the house Tali has lived her whole life in ‘til now, was the house Ziva was _killed in –_ Tony thinks, _What the fuck am I doing here._

Because seriously, what. What did he think he could accomplish with this? He’s thinking, what, that he’ll go and process the crime scene like he would if this were just some run of the mill case back home? He’ll go through with his little evidence bags looking for clues, taking photos and trying to piece together what happened here? He _knows_ what happened here. Ziva was _killed_ here. Tali was _almost_ killed here, and it was only thanks to a structural fluke that she wasn’t.

 

(And _fuck,_ he might not have known Tali for long, but the thought that he might have lost her too, without ever having had the chance to know her – to even know _about_ her – strikes him suddenly somewhere in the solar plexus and he has to take a moment to just breathe.)

 

The whole property is cordoned off (of course it is – it’s a damn _crime scene,_ what did he think, that it’d just be an unprotected pile of brick and rubble and the remnants of a ruined life that just _anybody_ could walk into?) and all of a sudden he can’t do this.

 

He can’t, he, he hasn’t thought this through at _all,_ he’s – he’s got Tali on his hip and a world of hurt in his heart and he’s standing on the outskirts of a house that was destroyed in an explosion that _killed the woman he loves_ (loves, present tense, not love **d** , because she might be gone but he still loves her with everything he has) and all he’s got with him is a couple changes of clothes in a worn dufflebag and all Tali has in the world is the nappy bag that Ziva packed the day before the bomb (and what for, where was she planning on going, when she packed it – was she packing for a trip to the zoo or to the park or just packing for a grocery trip? Tony will never know) and everything else that Tali had is buried in the rubble of what was once her house, and – what’s Tony going to do, sift through the crumbled brick and mortar looking for toys that he can dust off and return to Tali? _Why did he come here?_ And _what the hell is he supposed to do now?_

 

If it weren’t for Tali, he might have just sat down right there – right there on the grass next to where Ziva was blown to pieces – and had a full meltdown. Fortunately, Tali chooses that exact moment to squirm unhappily and make a whining sound in the back of her throat, and Tony’s not had her for long, but he’s already able to recognise the symptoms of a little girl who needs a new diaper.

 

And it’s good timing – amazing timing, actually, because his thoughts had been spinning wildly and his breath had started to come in shorter and shorter bursts as he stared at the ruined house and wondered what the hell he was doing here and what the _fuck_ he was meant to do next – because it gives him something to focus on. It gives him a task, it gives him a focus point.

 

He gets back into the car and tells the driver in an only slightly hoarse voice to take them to the hotel he’d booked, and while they’re on the way there he’s able to distract himself from the fact that he’s driving away from the ruins of Ziva’s home (the ruins of Ziva’s _life_ ) by focusing on an increasingly uncomfortable and vocal Tali, and trying to keep her from progressing from fussing about her dirty diaper to having a full on meltdown about her dirty diaper.

 

It’s a close call, and when they get to the hotel Tali’s decidedly grumpy, squirming constantly and half-whining half-crying a litany of upset noises, and Tony needs to halt this before it takes that last step into full on tantrum, because he just – he just cannot cope with a full tantrum right now, ok, he just can’t.

 

So it’s with haste that he pays the driver, gathers up his bits and pieces and his kid, dashes into the hotel and makes a beeline for the lobby bathrooms, Tali on one hip and his duffle and the diaperbag swinging wildly from the opposite shoulder.

 

He elbows his way through the door to the bathroom, dumps the duffle with his and Tali’s clothes in on the floor and clumsily sets the diaperbag on one end of the (thankfully wide) sink, then yanks the changemat out with one hand.

 

The photo of him and Ziva in Paris comes out with it – caught in one of the folds of thickened fabric – and he doesn’t notice it in time to stop it falling.

 

It lands on the tiled floor of the bathroom with the distinctive sound of glass breaking, and Tony stills, eyes wide, before he throws the still-folded changemat onto the bench and ducks down, Tali carefully balanced on his hip still, to pick up the frame.

 

The broken glass falls out of it with a gentle tinkle that echoes in the small tiled room, and Tony bites his lip to keep himself from swearing.

 

It looks dry, at least – the frame didn’t land in a puddle of water or anything, but he’ll still need to replace the glass.

 

He can’t do anything about it right now, though, and Tali’s fussing is getting louder, so he shakes the rest of the broken glass loose from the frame and sets it aside safely before turning his attention back to Tali.

 

The shock-factor over the fact that he’s a dad now – has a small child who’s dependant on him for everything from keeping well fed to keeping _clean –_ hasn’t worn off yet, and he wonders briefly what the him of ten years ago would think of the him of now.

 

He finishes changing Tali and packs up the diaperbag, balancing the photo carefully on top, and then he just – closes his eyes for a moment.

 

What was he thinking, coming here? Seriously, exactly what did he think he’d achieve? What could he have achieved if he was here _alone,_ much less with a small child in tow. Geez, he is so not in the right frame of mind for ---- any of this, really. Now that he’s thinking about it, what the hell was he doing, going straight from the airport to the crimescene, like he was here on a case or something? He didn’t sleep a wink on the flight over here, and Tali was awake for more of it than she should have been too.

 

What they need is sleep. Sleep, and _then_ he’ll figure out what the hell it is he’s supposed to do next.

 

He picks up their two bags and lifts Tali – who’s settled a bit now that she’s clean and comfortable again, but who’s now rubbing her eyes and making soft grumbly noises – onto his hip, and sets off for the check in counter.

 

Several hours later, Tony wakes to the sound of Tali quietly babbling away to herself.

 

He watches silently from his bed as she lies on her back in her cot, feet in the air as she natters happily away at nobody, and he feels a tired smile cross his face. Everything else in his life might have gone to hell, and his heart might be a shredded mess of blood and agony right now, but… but he’s got Tali, at least.

 

And a mere fortnight ago, had you asked Tony if he’d rather keep his job and keep catching bad guys and keep throwing paperballs at McGee’s head when he wasn’t paying attention and keep all that in exchange for never having children, or give all that up in order to take care of a little girl who’s just lost everything, Tony knows what he would have said. It’s amazing how your priorities can change once there’s actually a little girl who needs you sitting in a pusher right in front of you, blinking up at you with her mother’s eyes.

 

Tali looks over at Tony, sees that he’s awake and watching, and her whole face lights up with a smile as she babbles a happy greeting at him.

 

“Hey there pretty lady,” Tony says, calling up a smile in return and swiping a quick hand across his eyes to get rid of the moisture that had gathered in the corners. “How’d you sleep, huh?”

 

Tali babbles something back at him, and he’s not sure how much of it is Hebrew and how much is straight up baby-speak, but he nods and smiles at her as though he understood every word.

 

“I slept great, thanks for asking,” he says, and rolls over to the edge of the bed until he can stand up and reach into her cot. “Now, I don’t know about you, but _I,_ am hungry. You hungry?”

 

She holds onto his arms as he lifts her and settles him on his hip, and chatters something that Tony’s going to take as a _Yes, I am hungry._

 

He sets her up on the end of his bed, because he forgot to ask for a high chair and he doesn’t trust that she won’t fall out of the regular chairs surrounding the kitchen table, and heads over to the diaperbag to fish out one of the squeezy bottles of mashed up vegetables.

 

The photo of him and Ziva on the moped is still balanced on top of the bag, right where he left it several hours ago when he dropped it there before setting Tali down in her cot and flopping exhaustedly across his own bed.

 

Tony swallows at the surge of pain that rushes up his throat at the sight of the picture. It’s a corny, clichéd thought, but – they looked so _happy._ So carefree. They hadn’t been through half the shit that they ended up going through, not yet.

 

And it’s not just that that’s causing the lancing pain through his stomach, Tony thinks. It’s that this photo – this is a photo of who they _could have_ been, but never were. A photo of the people – the _couple_ – that they never had the chance to be.

 

A photo that’s still got bits of broken glass stuck in the corners.

 

Tony takes a deep breath and twists the cap of Tali’s mashed fruit, dredging up a smile and a cheerful “Here you are, my lady,” for her, and she happily takes the squeezy tube and latches onto the nozzle, slurping and sucking away at the meal with relish.

 

As soon as he’s sure she’s not going to drop it, Tony turns back to the photo and picks it up by the frame. He doesn’t know what they’ll do next (it seems like a huge waste, to come all the way out here only to turn around and go home again, but there is _literally_ nothing here for either of them, so what’s the point of staying?) but he knows that whatever they do, he needs to clean up this photo frame, because he can’t put it back in the diaperbag or his duffle while it’s still got broken glass stuck in it.

 

He takes it to the bench by the kitchen sink – since Tali won’t be able to reach up there, won’t be able to accidentally get into any glass shards he may miss in the clean up - and flips the frame over, prizing up the little metal bits that hold the backing in place. Once they’re folded up and out of the way, he pulls the thin wooden backing off and – pauses.

 

There’s writing on the back of the photo. It’s a light blue colour and faded, like the marker – because it was a marker, not a pen; the lines are too thick and rounded to be anything other than a marker – was nearly out of ink when the caption was written.

 

 _The café we went to that morning served the best croissants I have ever eaten,_ is what it says, which catches Tony’s attention because of what a blatant _lie_ it is –

 

– because Tony remembers that, remembers the café in question; remembers his and Ziva’s incredulous disbelief and amused outrage when presented with what was possibly the _worst_ pair of croissants that have ever existed, because they were in _Paris,_ for heavens sakes, a Parisian café should be able to make a _decent damn croissant,_ geez, what the hell _happened_ in the kitchen that the pastries in question all turned out to be mushy underdone _disasters,_ and Tony remembers laughing about it days and weeks later with Ziva, the running joke it turned into, the amused smirks they’d trade whenever they got a croissant from an American diner that was better than the two they had in _Paris_ –

 

– but mostly what Tony registers about the caption is the smudge underneath the caption. The smudge of light brown dust that’s been swiped across the back of the photo in the shape of an X.

 

It’s deliberate, that much is obvious. Ziva (and it’s definitely her writing; Tony recognises it better than his own) wrote about the café with the incredible croissants, and then drew an X with… dust. Ziva wrote a _scrawled_ caption – it’s scrawled, this is Ziva’s writing when she’s in a hurry – in a nearly dead blue marker, and then drew an X in dust. Dust that looks remarkably similar in colour to the brick and mortar of the destroyed house Tony was at earlier today.

 

There’s something fluttering deep in Tony’s chest that might be hope, and he swallows, forces himself to not jump to any conclusions, forces himself to think about this rationally.

 

Ziva’s dead. She is. The Director of Mossad herself told him so – or, no. She didn’t, actually, now that Tony’s thinking about it. She never actually said “I’m sorry Ziva died,” or any variant thereof. She just said _I’m sorry for your loss._ Which didn’t seem like anything terribly important at the time, that’s just the kind of thing you say to someone who’s just lost someone they love. And maybe it was just tactfulness on her part – not explicitly stating Ziva’s death, just leaving it unsaid – or maybe it was _tactical._

The thing that might be hope in Tony’s chest is getting bigger, and he ruthlessly wrestles it down. He’s being stupid. He’s being irrational. Ziva’s _dead,_ and Tony is grieving and a new father and _so damn lost_ and he’s looking for anything to grab onto that’ll keep him afloat, and false hope is fine right up until it’s proven to be false hope, in which case it suddenly becomes the worst thing in the world.

 

That’s all this is. False hope. He’s reading into things because he wishes so, so desperately that Ziva weren’t dead, but she is, and this isn’t gonna be like that time when they all _thought_ she was dead but it turned out she was just captured because she actually is, really and truly, dead this time.

 

Only.

 

Did anyone ever actually say they’d found a body? Tony doesn’t remember. He remembers swinging his bag over his shoulder and starting for the door, only for McGee and Abby to walk in with their faces screaming the news they so badly didn’t want to tell him, and he remembers being told that Mossad had confirmed it, but he doesn’t remember anyone ever saying outright that she’d been found, that anyone had actually found her dead body. Just that Mossad confirmed her death, and Mossad aren’t exactly the most upfront truthful guys, in Tony’s experience.

 

And sure, you don’t exactly come out and _say_ that kind of thing. “Yeah, sorry the love of your life died; her body was in a terrible shape when we found her. I guess she went quick though, judging by the damage to her skull, but you know. Who knows, really.”

 

Not the kind of thing you discuss with distraught loved ones.

 

But. _But._

 

Tony had wanted to see her. Tony had wanted to fly to Israel, wanted to see her with his own eyes, wanted to say _goodbye,_ and – what was it the Director told him? _You don’t want to do that._

 

And ok, maybe it was yet more tact. You don’t talk about loved one’s bodies and you try to shield the loved ones from seeing bodies if they’re horribly and terribly mangled beyond repair or recognition.

 

But Tony keeps coming back to the caption on the back of the photo.

 

Because Ziva, well ok, she wasn’t a _perfectionist,_ but she was pretty close, and if she was going to write anything on the back of a photograph – a photograph she obviously cared enough about to put into her daughter’s diaperbag so that it was with the two of them always – she’d make sure to do it with a working pen, not a blue marker that looked like it was on its last legs, and she’d write it neatly, not like it was a shopping list she was scribbling as she ran out the door.

 

And the message itself. The message itself is – it’s like it was a caption just for her. A reminder for her eyes only. It’s not a caption for the benefit of Tali, or anyone else who might look at it. Because no one looking at that message aside from her or Tony would learn anything about the photo from – not who was in it, not when it was taken, not _where_ it was taken. There are no defining landmarks in the photo, and it’s only because Tony remembers it that he knows it was in Paris. Otherwise, it could have been in --- Italy, or England, or anywhere else they have cobbled streets and Vespa’s.

 

And the lie about the croissants _could_ be sarcasm, could be a continuation of his and Ziva’s running joke – but something about that sits strangely too, because they never once used sarcasm to describe the croissants that were burnt on the outside and under-cooked on the inside, so why would she use it here?

 

And the cross with the dusty dirt. Why. Because it’s obvious that it was intentional – it’s far too deliberate to have been accidental, and if it _had_ been accidental then she would have cleaned it off, not sealed it in behind the wooden frame-back – but it makes no _sense._

 

It really is similar to the colour the bricks that made up her house were.

 

Tony swallows, trying to get a hold of the hope that’s flaring rebelliously in his chest, tries to force his breathing back to something approximating normal.

 

Behind him, Tali says something cheerful as she finishes her meal, casts the now empty package aside and crawls up the blankets to fetch her toy, which she settles with on top of one of Tony’s pillows and starts talking to enthusiastically.

 

Tony looks back to the caption, lets his fingers trail over the pale blue words.

 

Well. False hope or not, looks like Tony knows what he’s going to do next.

 

Because he’s not going to rest, now; not til he knows for sure either way.

 

Worst case, he’ll introduce Tali to the worst croissants in existence and teach her a little bit of her parents’ history.

 

And best case – but no, nope. He can’t – he’s not going to let himself think about it. Not going to let himself _hope_ (except that he already has).

 

Because if he turns out to be wrong – if it turns out that he _is_ just reading into all this, but he’s allowed himself to believe that Ziva might, that she might possibly be…. – then it might just break him for good.

 

So – heart in his throat, and something that might possibly be hope fluttering in his chest – Tony re-packs Tali’s diaperbag, pulls out his laptop, and then books Tali and himself a one-way trip to Paris.

 

…

 

The flight to Paris isn’t much better than the flight to Tel Aviv had been, the only improvement  being that Tali sleeps towards the end of the flight, so Tony’s able to get some sleep too.

 

Landing and travelling through Paris isn’t as bad as Tel Aviv, because Tony’s self-aware enough to know that he’ll be looking for her if he looks out the windows, so instead he keeps his focus on Tali – plays with her and entertains her, has her giggling helplessly at him when he ‘looses’ her toy, only to be startled by its ‘sudden’ reappearance on his shoulder.

 

He’s booked for them to stay in the same hotel he and Ziva stayed in last time they were here, and he heads straight there with Tali to check in and drop his dufflebag off. And to freshen up a bit. Change Tali’s diaper, because while it’s not dirty, it has been several hours since it was last changed and is probably uncomfortable. And then he realises he’s stalling – putting off finding out whether he’s reading a whole lot into nothing, or if there’s actually something to the hope that’s pulsing rebelliously in his chest – so he snarls at himself and scoops up the diaperbag with Tali’s change of clothes and food and snacks, sets Tali on his hip and walks out the door.

 

The walk to the café with the shitty croissants takes a grand total of fifteen minutes, and it’s not long enough. Tali’s in a bright, bubbly mood, curious about everything around her, and Tony latches onto that – focusses on telling her that that’s a car, yes, do you know what colour it is? It’s blue, it’s a blue car, and that one’s red, and that over there is called a _patisserie,_ which Tony’s pretty sure is just a fancy French way of saying _café,_ and that there is a dog, yes, isn’t it cute with it’s fur and it’s ears, and see that, that’s the _Eiffel Tower,_ and it’s really tall, and maybe they’ll climb it whilst they’re here, Tony’s never done that, and yes, that’s a bike, bikes are _wow_ aren’t they – and then they’re at the café and –

 

and –

 

And there’s a brunette woman sitting outside the café, facing away from them, her dark hair glinting in the sun, and Tony’s breath catches in his throat and his heart seizes in his chest because that’s _her._

 

This isn’t like in Israel, where he kept thinking he saw her out the corner of his eye – glimpses borne of waking dreams and wishful thinking, mostly.

 

This _is_ her, he knows it as deeply and as truly as it’s possible to know something – this isn’t an illusion or a trick of the mind or wishful thinking manifesting in false sightings. Sure, her back is to him and he can’t see her face – but he knows her better than he’s ever known anyone, and from the shade of her hair to the set of her shoulders to the line of her arm as she lifts her coffee to her lips to the way she holds her head as she sips her drink – it’s _her._

 

He’s standing in the middle of the sidewalk and people are swerving around him and glaring but he barely notices any of that as he _stares,_ jaw slack and air caught in his lungs, and his heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of his chest, and there are so many emotions swirling through him that he feels like he’s going to pass out or explode or vomit or start singing.

 

Somehow, he manages to not do any of those things.

 

Instead, his feet start walking almost without input from his brain, until he’s standing right behind her.

 

Tali is a solid weight in his arms and the diaperbag with the photo that started all this is hanging from his shoulder and his heart is pounding against his ribcage and she’s sitting right there, right in front of him, and she hasn’t turned around yet, but she’s close enough that he could reach out a hand and touch her, and he opens his mouth to speak – to say her name – but the word gets stuck in his throat, and –

 

Ziva takes the problem out of his hands.

 

“You found me,” she says without turning around, and her voice sounds warm and affectionate and – and like _sunshine,_ and Tony knows that that’s a sickly sweet and unbelievably corny thing to even _think,_ and the him from years ago would be disgusted with himself, but it’s the truth; her voice sounds like sunshine and like bottled happiness and like coming home, and Tony feels something jagged and broken in his chest heal over, and he feels his lips pull up in the first genuine smile he’s smiled in _days_.

 

“Of course I did,” he says, and he means for it to come out brazen and cocky and a little bit smug (like the Tony DiNozzo he was when she first met him), but instead it comes out soft and gentle and heartfelt and so full of emotion that he’d feel embarrassed if he had any emotional room left to spare.

 

Geez, the Tony who left Baltimore to join NCIS all those years ago wouldn’t even know who this Tony is. Tony can’t even find it in himself to care.

 

There’s a croissant on a plate next to her coffee that’s been torn in half. The edges are burnt and the inside looks soggy and undercooked, and a laugh bursts out of Tony’s chest all of its own accord.

 

“I see the croissants have improved since last time,” he says, and Ziva chuckles and turns around in her seat.

 

Tali spots her, and lets out a shriek of delight as she literally throws herself out of Tony’s arms.

 

Tony has half a second to panic and try to catch her before Ziva catches her instead with what must be ease of practice.

 

“ _My love,”_ Ziva murmurs in Hebrew, as Tali wraps her tiny arms around Ziva’s neck and babbles away a mess of sounds that are half-words half toddler-speak. “ _My sweet angel.”_

“You’d think a Parisian café could manage to make a halfway decent croissant,” Tony says hoarsely, and he doesn’t know when it happened, but he’s kneeling on the ground next to Ziva, one hand on Tali’s back and the other wrapped around the leg of Ziva’s chair, and he tries to swallow past the emotion in his throat, but fails.

 

“I have decided it must be all the American tourists who are keeping this establishment going,” Ziva replies, arms wrapped tight around Tali and her eyes dancing with warmth.

 

“Chumps,” Tony says, grinning and maybe possibly crying a little bit. Just a little bit. The corners of his eyes are a tad damp, that’s all.

 

“Tony,” she says, and he swallows roughly and reaches up to place a gentle hand on her cheek, and her eyes are maybe a little bit damp as well, shining in the bright Parisian sun as her eyes stay locked with his.

 

Later, he’ll find out why she allowed everyone to think she was dead.

 

There had been someone after her – a terrorist named Amael who she’d wronged by assisting with the dismantling of his whole operation, and who’d recently escaped prison. She’d known he would come after her, and had already been trying to think of a way to keep herself and Tali safe from him when Kort’s bomb had blown up her house in the middle of the night.

 

She’d been in the nursery at the time – Tali had taken a while falling asleep that night, and Ziva was still lingering to make sure the child wouldn’t wake – so while the rest of the building was destroyed, thanks to the structural quirk in the nursery, both Ziva and Tali were spared.

 

After the initial panic and scramble to ensure Tali’s safety, Ziva had realised the opportunity she now had in front of her. She’d known what would happen to Tali, if she went through with it – known that she’d be sent to Tony, would be kept safe – and she’d known, _known,_ that the only way she and her child would ever be properly safe from Amael was if he thought she was dead.

 

So she’d soothed Tali as best she could whilst the dust from their ruined house still settled around them, placed the child back in her crib, and reached for the diaperbag, and the photo frame within it.

 

The closest thing she could find to write with was a blue marker whose lid had been left off and was so close to drying out that the ink came out faded and light. It was enough, though. It had to be enough.

 

The message she scribbles would read as, to anyone else, a fond memory – but Tony will hopefully, hopefully, be able to read between the lines.

 

So she’d put the frame back in the bag, stuffed Tali’s favourite toy into the side pocket, kissed her child on the head, and left.

 

Leaving Tali there, coated in dust and crying her little eyes out, was the hardest thing she’s ever had to do, Ziva later tells Tony.

 

But she’d managed it, and she’d gotten out of the ruins of the house mere moments before the first emergency responders arrived. She’d called Mossad’s director then, because she might not like the woman, but she did trust her – and told her the plan. She had to, else there would have been questions as to where her body was. This way, she had cover. This way, Amael would believe she was dead.

 

So she’d watched from a distance as the emergency teams swarmed, as reporters rolled up. Watched as a man carried Tali safely out of the building, the child on one hip and the diaperbag with her message and Tali’s favourite toy swinging from the other shoulder. And then she’d turned away, made her way through the darkness to a drop-point she’d set up years ago that she’d hoped never to need, taken her fake passport and change of clothes, and made her way to the airport.

 

All that will come later though – the story, the explanation.

 

For now, Tony’s kneeling outside a Parisian café that serves the most amazingly shitty croissants, one hand resting reassuringly against his child’s back and his other hand resting against the cheek of the woman he loves, and she’s looking at him with eyes that are as damp as his as she says his name in a tone of reverent happiness.  

 

“Ziva,” he replies, and her hand comes up to cover his, her fingers linking gently around his.

 

And she smiles at him – watery and bright and so full of promise – and Tali lifts her head from Ziva’s shoulder to babble something at them both in cheerful Hebrew-baby-speak, and Tony... Tony feels like he’s finally come home.

**Author's Note:**

> Excuse the slap-dash style of this (that whole episode had so many plot holes, and I couldn’t fix them all) but I whipped this up while running high on emotions and rage, and then just posted it, so. Not my best work. But BETTER THAN THEIRS. 
> 
> So. Yeah. This is my headcanon. Feel free to make it your headcanon too, if you like. I have a lot of emotions about this episode, and none of them are good. They disrespected Tony, they disrespected Ziva, they disrespected their own damn show as a whole, and they disrespected the fans. I don’t care if Cote didn’t want to come back for the episode. They still had so many options, even without her actually being in it. But they chose the laziest way out, and it was shit. This was the nail in NCIS’s coffin. 
> 
> Also if there are any errors regarding what happened in the ep, forgive me. I’ve only seen it once, and I was kind of blind with rage for at least half of it, so it’s possible that I’ve remembered a few little details incorrectly.


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